


Meant To Be

by MeikoAtsushi



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Curses, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fantasy elements, Fluff, If Every K-Drama ever made was in one fic, Implied/Referenced Depression, M/M, Min Yoongi | Suga Is Whipped, Minor Character Death, Park Jimin Is Bad at Feelings, Park Jimin Is a Brat, Reincarnation, Rich!Park Jimin, Unrequited Love, joseon era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-24 20:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17107247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeikoAtsushi/pseuds/MeikoAtsushi
Summary: Min Yoongi is a cursed man; a man cursed with the fate of unrequited love for eternity, technically for the past 600 years. Working 8 part-time jobs in the ruthless city of Seoul, he meets a classic, chaebol-brat Park Jimin, the most beautiful asshole he's met in his entire life, who just also happens to be the person he's been dreading to face since his birth.Park Jimin is the only heir to the Park Family - he's talented, charismatic, and has his future woven together perfectly. One wrong encounter with an aggressive pianist of the most mesmerizing obsidian orbs is threatening to shatter that. How little does he know that they are meant to be - "to never meant to be".One fated pair, 600 years, and a rotting curse - something is bound to change.





	1. DNA

**Author's Note:**

> Compared to the dramatic summary, this fic is about 90 percent drama and 10 percent fluff. Some fair warnings that I have for my readers (if there are any) are historical inaccuracies for the sake of the plot (that moment when you're Korean but you don't know your own history that well), and minor character deaths that don't really matter. 
> 
> This is also my first BTS fic ever - which is an enormous transformation from my usual anime fics. I'm excited because so far, this entire story is planned, meaning that at least I won't discontinue it because I don't know how to write the story. I have 18 chapters (including the epilogue) but that could jump every now and then (probably not decrease). 
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTES:
> 
> *** - refers to Yoongi's POV  
> &&& \- refers to Jimin's POV  
> Doryeonim - is another word for "Young Master", typically for heirs of a luxurious family. It could be used in other contexts in family reunions as well, but that's not crucial to the comprehension of the story. 
> 
> Other than that, please enjoy the ride!

**“첫눈에 널 알아보게 됐어, 서로를 불러왔던 것 처럼” – DNA**

**\- I recognized you at first sight as if we were calling one another -**

 

_“Are you certain?”_

“Solid.”

 

The syllables crack, as his fingers curl into the crimson silk robes beneath him. There’s the faintest scent of spring, carried by the gust of wind, a metallic tang following thereafter.

 

_“This trade isn’t for a century, human. We’re discussing eternity. Do you know the extent of an eternity?”_

“No,” The man admits, as he tightens his desperate hold around his trembling, dying lover. Lover? No, that wasn’t quite accurate. “But it’s definitely worthy of his life.”

 

The voice above the storm rumbles, the clouds shifting and deforming into humored shapes – or as humored as clouds could appear. _“You mortals and love – a fickle life for a fickle emotion. He’s a scrawny slum boy, grasping the rotten string of his final breath. And you’re willing to abandon your eternity for his soul?”_

“Anything.” His voice does not waver, not over the oppressive rainfall, not under the furious lightning. “Anything for him – you can take it all. I’ve always had too much in my possession for my own good – too much that didn’t matter. I finally found him – I’m finally able to cherish him. If that means my eternity, as you phrase it, then you can gladly devour it as you please.”

 

A particularly strong gust of air blasts, as if the skies were huffing. _“Very well. The pact is made, human. The oath is to last forever, and will incarnate and live in your blood. All this exchange, for your dear companion’s life.”_

“Thank you.” He breathes to the voice above him. “Thank you.”

 

_“A pleasure. May the heavens be in your favor, Lee…”_

* * *

_“You?_ Out of all the perfectly capable, mature, collected Jeons, _you’re_ organizing this party?”

 

“How _rude,_ hyung. It’s as if I don’t apply to any of those adjectives.”

 

“In which, as a matter of fine fact, you don’t.”

 

“I’m not _that_ hopeless. I’m an astute, meticulously educated young man, as much as any of you currently in this room- Tae, I saw that eye-roll.”

 

The diamond-blue chandeliers hanging to the high ceiling seemed to scoff at the preposterous announcement. “Sorry, Kook-ah. I swear I have 2000-percent trust in your astounding abilities.” The blond man addressed as ‘Tae’ giggled, as he adjusted his posture on the magenta leather couch, crossing his legs and leaning forward. “The party’s going to be a success, I just know it.”

 

“The party’s going to be a failure, I just know it.”

 

“Seriously, Namjoonie-hyung, stop shooting down Kook’s self-esteem.”

 

The eldest of the three heaved a disgruntled sigh, drawing his fingers to the bridge of his nose as he shut his eyelids. “Taehyung, you out of all of us should know that Jungkook is beyond amateuristic when it comes to dealing with actual, respiring human entities. He’s been holed up in his room for the past month, working on that palette knife collage project or whatever –“ Jungkook interrupted with his index finger held straight in the air, his mouth parting to retort, but Namjoon simply waved him away. “I’m just concerned, you know that. _You,_ Jungkook, it’s _you_ who’s going to be the face of Paragon, and you honestly have the facial complexion of an elementary school girl –“

 

“Joonie-hyung, Jungkook is 23.”

 

“ _Details,_ Taehyung, _detallas._ ”

 

“I really wish you’d stick to speaking one language at a time someday,” Taehyung grumbled, as he tangled his fingers through Jungkook’s auburn locks, in an effort to appease the jittery male. “So, Kookie, what can we do for you?”

 

Namjoon buried his head in a green latex cushion as he groaned, “I just want Jimin to be here. He’s experienced with hosting parties, dealing with guests while wearing a pretty face, managing to keep possible verbal conflagrations under control –“

 

“You _know_ that no matter what Jiminie utters with that characteristic Elsa expression of his, he’s not actually a block of ice inside-out. There’s absolutely no chance of him missing out on Jungkookie’s first officially organized party; he’ll be there as emotional support, in the guise of some flimsy excuse such as ‘personal business ensued’. Now can I ask Jungkook what he needs in peace?” Namjoon ruined his handsomely done gelled hairdo by rubbing it against the pillow in response, as Taehyung returned to the youngest.

 

The Jeon nuzzled against Taehyung’s arm, “I think I can do the whole invitations and organization crap, catering, all that – we have connections that we reach for, and with the family name, it’s not particularly challenging to accomplish a given task. But, well…”

 

“But?”

 

“The usual band of musicians we request has another event scheduled for that day, since this arrangement was super rushed through, if you know what I mean. And so I need a musician, a pianist, a violinist, a flutist, anyone will do really, as long as we can maintain an acceptable level of formality –“

 

“ _Jungkook,_ you haven’t got a single point down the list of to-do’s so far and you’re preoccupied over a _musician_? I swear, one day you’re going to proclaim that you’re going to become the next Pirate King hunting down the legendary One Piece and I’ll –“

 

“ _Hyung,_ get over your anxiety issues, Jesus.” Tae snapped, his baritone voice lined with irritation. “Okay, musician. Cool, I’m sure I can figure something out along the equation. I’m not really associated with anyone in the music industry, but hey, the world of entertainment is vast, and so is my contact list. I’m certain that if I dig deep enough, I might as well discover Mozart.”

 

Namjoon spat, “Mozart is dead.”

 

“Oh my god, hyung.”

 

***

 

The skies of May were in accord with the season – sickeningly blue, scarcely dotted with white clouds and penetrated by a blaring sun amidst of it all. Summer was approaching at an alarming pace, and the heat of the asphalt sidewalk was sufficient in temperature to fry eggs and bacon for an English breakfast. For this fact alone, Min Yoongi had never been more relieved in his entire life to be working in an air-conditioned convenience store for the whole afternoon while the sun was outside, despite the rather pitiable hourly wage of the job.

 

On hellishly hot days as these, even customers were a rare sight. Nobody in their sane mind would trudge through the suffocating roads of the city, withstanding the moist yet scalding weather on their skin. Not that any of that information bothered Yoongi – as a part-timer in this workaholic country, breaks were more than welcome.

 

He scrolled through his phone, skimming the latest news on a scandal between some famous comedian and married actress, a skirmish between two CEOs in the first class section of the Asiana Airlines, and more on a diverse assembly of topics that Yoongi had no care for. The grandiose world of the bourgeois was frankly, none of his business, and he could give less than one shit about every single one of them.

 

The ringing of the auto door caused his head to whip upward in habit, as he smacked his phone down on the counter and regressed to his station. His professional composure dissolved instantaneously as he realized the identity of the newcomer, however.

 

“Seriously,” Yoongi grunted, “How are you alive with that outfit in this demonic weather?”

 

The lean man released a hearty laugh, as he removed his black celebrity mask, sunglasses, and pink cap. “Acting is a refined skill, Yoongichi. It comes with practice and patience. I always remind you.”

 

“That wasn’t the point of my question, and it wasn’t asked with the purpose of being answered in the first place, _Jin._ ”

 

“Are you really just going to disclose my presence to the universe like that? I’ve endured arduous conditions to get here, mind you.” Jin, also the same man printed on literally eighty percent of the convenience store’s merchandise, pouted at Yoongi with his perfectly shaped lips.

 

“I’m not the one that constantly makes stupid decisions in life. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, filming for some drama? Your lines are damn cheesy by the way, you’re the core reason of why I switched channels.”

 

Seokjin slapped his hand on his chest with a dramatic motion and gasp. “My acting is _flawless,_ how dare you. I’m not cheesy, I’m performing my part. Hoseokie said I was awesome, and- great, you’re not listening.”

 

The part-timer hummed. “I’m honored that you finally noticed. If you’re not buying, then please continue walking out that door over there.”

 

“Fine, fine, I’ll cut straight to the point. I can’t believe our friendship of twelve years is so fragile, so cold- okay, I get it, no need to glare, I get it.” Running his long, slim fingers through his styled black hair, Jin dragged a stool from the corner and plopped down in front of the cashier. “So, I’m sure you’ve heard of Kim Taehyung.”

 

Yoongi snorted, throwing his head back in exasperation. “Yeah, no idea.” There are at least 4 posters of chip advertisements taped around the store’s walls, a ridiculously, borderline unrealistic-hot man seductively biting his lip while holding a corn chip in the center. _“When in doubt, V a corn chip”_ is what the quotation beneath the model read, and despite the sheer absurdity of the words, Yoongi purchased 5 bags of that corn chip purely because of the poster. Or the man on it. There was no definite answer.

 

“Yes, the biggest wicked sex appeal in human form of the century, V. He wants to meet you.”

 

Min Yoongi’s thought process pressed the ‘pause’ button. His mouth is dangling just a little, his jaw loose, and his face blank. “… What?”

 

“You wanted me to get to the main point, Yoon.”

 

“ _No,_ fuck, _what_?” V still had this tantalizing look in that dumb corn chip ad, unchanging and sexy. _That_ man, wanted to meet Yoongi. What.

 

Seokjin sunk into the stool, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. “I was only informed of the basics, as your intermediary of sorts. Have you heard of the Paragon Group?”

 

“If you mean _the_ Paragon Group, as in the one that handles 75 percent of South Korea’s shopping malls, then yes.”

 

“That one. So, apparently the heir to the Paragon – a Jeon something, I don’t know – is hosting a party this upcoming Sunday night. They’re lacking a musician and all, and it’s less than three days away, so they’re quite in a pinch. V’s the poor guy’s best friend, so V’s been going around for candidates. And you know, me, being a hospitable, helpful person by nature, might’ve slipped that I’m acquainted with a talented pianist –“

 

“ _Holy_ shit, Jin, what have you gotten me into –“

 

Seokjin held up his left hand, and Yoongi grudgingly allowed him to go on. “It’s not _that_ dreadful, Yoongi. The event lasts for three hours, and you’re free to play whatever you wish, as long as your selection is suitable for the environment. You’re not even the focus of attention – it’s like background noise. The pay is apparently impressive, if that’s what you’re curious about.”

 

Grinding his teeth, Yoongi banged his head against the surface of the counter. “They’re _the_ Paragon. They can throw some cash and get an orchestra to kneel, I bet.”

 

“Yes, but you’re _the_ Suga. May I kindly offer to revisit your YouTube channel and see how many more subscribers you’ve gained since your most recent video?”

 

The pianist shook his head in denial, clenching and unclenching his clammy fists. “Seokjin, that was an eon ago. I haven’t uploaded anything on my channel for two damn years.”

 

Seokjin twirled on the stool, his hair floating with the breeze. “V’s your fan, and he really wants it to be you. I had to sit through thirty minutes of his ‘Suga’ worship, Yoongi, I think you owe me this much.” Yoongi crinkled his nose in rejoinder, and the actor sent him an apologetic frown. “I’m fully aware of how much you despise large gatherings, Yoonie, where there are crowds and people overwhelming you. I just… I thought it’d be an incredible opportunity for you. You don’t need to force yourself or stress out over this, alright? Just give it a try if you’re in the mood.” Seokjin handed him a neatly folded sticky note, where Taehyung’s number and a time and location was scribbled in haste.

 

Yoongi snatched the yellow paper from him, in which the older smiled weakly. “You know I can’t refuse if you use that tone with me, hyung.” He attempts clumsily to sound as irate as he can, which normally shouldn’t be this difficult – but Seokjin is Seokjin, and nobody can actually be furious at the man. “… I’ll call him after my shift.”

 

“This is why you’re my favorite, Yoongichi.” Jin chortled as he patted his friend’s head, “Tell me how it goes, okay? Don’t be an asshole, Taehyung can be invasive with personal space and everything, but he’s a good guy. Oh, and if you have sound logic, I’m sure you can pull some more cash out of them. Also –“

 

“Got it, Jin-hyung, now please shut up and leave.”

 

***

 

 _Perhaps_ , Yoongi mulled, the crumpled sticky note damp in his grip, _I just committed myself to the most foolish trade since I was out of my mother’s womb._

 

He double-checked the almost illegible handwriting and the aggregation of words. Then he raised his head and arched his neck backward, staring at the towering mansion that stood with august glory under the sunlight, one that Yoongi would imagine being in some fictional Chaebol romance K-drama, where the main female protagonist would be in some massive debt due to her father’s company going bankrupt, and wearing rags that were pass-downs from her mother or sibling. Well, Min Yoongi was that female protagonist, comically extraneous to his surroundings as he wore his torn jeans and navy hoodie, his jet-black hair tousled from a particularly messy exit from his bed in the morning.

 

 _I’m not even sure if there’s a fucking doorbell around, Lord._ He didn’t see a doorbell, but there was a gigantic gate blocking his path to the main entrance of the mansion. Of course, this was the home of the heir to _the_ Paragon Group, the _Jeons._ What was he expecting, a measly apartment in the middle of Seoul? An exquisite mansion, a thick layer of security – this was all within a predictable range, no doubt.

 

“Screw this,” He muttered under his breath, hurling the piece of paper to the ground. “I’m going home.” He’s on his heels, more than mentally prepared to get the hell out of this extravagant _everything –_ he just wanted some comfort to his aging eyes, a second without some golden paint flashing against the sun.

 

“You must be Mr. Min, correct?”

 

_Oh, no._

He scrambled for that paper he just agitatedly littered mere seconds ago, and mustered a, “Yes, that’d be me,” in broken Korean. Timing. Life was all about the timing, goddamnit.

 

The man sported a solemn expression that complemented his dark blue suit wonderfully. Yoongi wasn’t even sure how the guy was breathing in the stuffy attire, but the latter wasn’t phased, as he scrutinized his guest with a judgmental gaze. “Our _doryeonnim_ has been awaiting your arrival with thrill. I’ll guide you to the meeting room.” While nodding tensely, Yoongi watched as the butler, or whatever position this man assumed, unlocked the gates and led him through the mansion.

 

So, if the exterior of the Jeons’ household wasn’t outrageous already, the interior was a disastrous delight. The so-called main hall was at least six times the atomic size of his house, and the soft, luxurious carpet he was stepping on evidently cost more than all the belongings he owned for the past 27 years. He practically tiptoed as he paced on the marble, following the lead of the unnamed man through the maze of corridors and at least thirty rooms. Who the heck needed _thirty rooms_ to survive, anyway – Yoongi fared well with just one.

 

They halted at the very end of what felt like at least the 7th corner along the journey, with a circular, ornate door decorated in traditional patterns slightly opened, a ray of luminous light seeping out and coloring the floor with gold. The man gestured at him to enter, and an icky sensation curled in his guts. Fairly audible whispers and murmurs trailed out the gap of the door, the voices low and hushed inside.

 

_Confidence, calm. Like Jin. Like Seokjin. Yeah._

He marched into the room with a guarded scowl plastered on his face, his hands in his pockets and his footsteps silenced.

 

Two men were seated on velvet chairs, the distance too proximate to be mere acquaintances. One Yoongi found that he already recognized – Mr. Seductive Corn Chip, AKA V, with his pretty blond hair and beach-tanned skin, his dark brown orbs glittering with stars. The individual next to him was a little taller, and his build more muscular, but his cute bunny face added a rather intriguing contrast to the overall image.

 

Yoongi pinched his upper thigh with his hand concealed in his pockets, just to confirm that once again, he wasn’t dreaming, and if he wasn’t, that he was a very, very stupid man that should’ve never befriended a monster by the name of Kim Seokjin.

 

“You must be –“ Mr. Peter Rabbit politely began, until Mr. Sex Appeal interjected,

 

“You’re _Suga,_ like, for real, right? Holy moly, I never dreamt that I’d actually be able to meet you in real life, like, _wow._ Can I please get an autograph- Kook, tell me you have paper, this is critical –“

 

“Tae, I adore you and everything, but I _really_ need this to work out –“

 

“ _Jungkook-ah,_ don’t you dare interrupt this matter of universal importance. He’s my role model, he’s my dream, and he’s _here,_ in person, not just his fingers on my monitor like _can you believe –“_

 

“I don’t,” Gently disrupting Taehyung’s buzzing excitement, Yoongi stiffly said, “I don’t have a signature or anything, sorry.” Obviously, his voice held some unprecedented power that he previously didn’t know, because Taehyung stared at him as if he were a fairy that dropped from Neverland, completely entranced. The pianist stole an awkward glimpse at the other man – Kook? – who placed his hand on V’s lap.

 

“I apologize for the… overwhelming reaction of Taehyung, he’s crazy over your covers and all your music. He’s been quite the zealous fan ever since you started that channel, and, well.” Yoongi nodded somewhat glumly, as if he understood. He didn’t. “My name is Jeon Jungkook – feel free to address me as you please.”

 

“Oh, uh, yes. I’m… Min Yoongi, but I also go as Suga when I’m producing or playing.” He squirmed uncomfortably under the starry daydream Taehyung seemed to possess for him, his orbs glowing with adulation. “I believe you needed me for your… party.”

 

Jungkook eased into the curve of the chair as if it were a personal sanctuary. To Yoongi, it was thorn-adorned torture. “It’s considered as a quite informal gathering on the spectrum, actually. Even so, pleasantries to heighten the mood are always a positive aspect, I believe. It’s… a Jeon tradition, we value aesthetic and arts, and we always had some form of music to accompany our events.”

 

“And you didn’t have any alternatives?” Yoongi quirked a brow, “I presumed you’d have quite an extensive list of options.”

 

“But your piano is mesmerizing!” Taehyung perked up, a millisecond before Jungkook answers. “It’s entrancing, magical, and… indescribable. You have talent, Suga, and… I just want more people to hear you. It’s frustrating that the world doesn’t know a gem like you. I _always_ tell my friends to watch your videos, and they all comment that you’re fascinating, all that- well, except one, ‘cause he’s “too busy” and whatnot, but –“

 

“Tae, you know that Jimin _is_ actually busy. Did you see the stack of paperwork on his desk?”

 

_Jimin._

The name transitioned into Yoongi, taking his breath away. The consonants were all too familiar on the tongue, the nightmare that haunted him for 15 years crawling into his bones. A Jimin. _Jimin._

“Jimin.” He growled aloud, his voice tight and thin. Jungkook and Taehyung separated from their brief altercation, as Jungkook flashed a smile at him.

 

“Sorry, I’m sure we bewildered you with that. We meant Park Jimin – the heir to the crown of the Park Corporation – the wealthiest, most influential family in South Korea, they’re titled. He’s our dear friend, and Taehyung’s been putting in all his efforts to have Jimin watch your videos for the past 3 months. He hasn’t been too convinced, but Tae, Jiminie-hyung will have to heed his music whether he wants to or not at the party, so no worries.”

 

“God, Kook-ah, do I ever tell you that I love you enough?”

 

“Yes, plenty. I love you too, though.”

 

While the interaction was unbearably cute, Yoongi couldn’t bring himself to the identical level of elation. _Jimin._ The name tugged him back to far too many courses of his memory, from mortifying to horrifying, from aggression to gore.

 

 _It’s fine,_ he cumbersomely soothed himself with his own words, _there are thousands of Jimins in this country. He’s not going to be the one. He can’t be the one._

_He can’t._

&&&

 

_Pitter, patter._

_Pitter, patter._

_Pitter, patter._

He counted the raindrops, learned its irregular rhythm, observed the liquid as it congregated with fellow droplets and slid down the glass surface. His skin was chilled from the coolness of the leather covers of the car seat and the wetness of the atmosphere. His tuxedo and necktie felt sticky and asphyxiating, and he yearned for the cleansing warmth of a steaming bath and cotton robes. He blurred out the distorted vision of his father, the steel of his speech with the rain, drowning out the throb in his ears, the knot in his chest.

 

_“Jimin, you’re not… ing…”_

_“Jimin, how many… do I…”_

_“Jimin…”_

_“Jimin…”_

His knuckles whitened, as he bit down on his dry lips. Exhaustion hung to his clothes, all the stress, the unfinished work weighing him down, crushing his spirit. It wasn’t the best day – that was precisely what it was. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

His phone vibrated next to him, edging to the right as the car drove over a bump. Jimin reluctantly opened the notification, scanning his best friend’s most recent update on his Instagram about Jungkook’s party. Taehyung had his boxy grin in the most V-fashion, while Jungkook had his back turned towards the camera, as he conversed with a guest that Jimin vaguely recalled from a business meeting. Jimin rubbed his eyes tiredly, the screen too bright in the opaque darkness of the confined car. His phone blinked again, repeatedly, and Jimin suppressed the urge to ignore it.

 

**_TaeYourBae:_ **

****

**_Jiminieeeee :(_ **

**_I miss uuu_ **

**_Ur missing out u kno_ **

**_I finally called suga to show u how amazing he is and ur not here_ **

**_Hes doing really well btw_ **

**_Everyone likes him_ **

****

****

**_You:_ **

**_That’s nice to hear_ **

**_Traffic_ **

**_I’m not sure if I’ll make it_ **

****

The time read 9:23 on his watch and the party was scheduled to wrap up at 10. Jimin still had a few kilometers until Jungkook’s, and the traffic really was hectic – it was a Sunday night, after all. The only reason why he was going through this excruciating day was because this was the first official event Jungkook had organized, and Jimin, as a friend, felt responsible to attend it. Taehyung had baited him with the fact that this ‘Suga’ was going to be present as a pianist – which technically couldn’t be qualified as bait material, as Jimin wasn’t the slightest bit interested in some random pianist. He’s encountered multitudes of top-class pianists throughout his life, from varying ages to genres. There was nothing special about jotting down another name to the ongoing list.

 

“We’re here, Jimin doryeonnim.” His driver spoke, and Jimin’s eyes fluttered up the white, flamboyant Jeon estate.

 

“Thank you, Sejin. I’ll be back once everything’s done.”

 

“Yes, doryeonnim.”

 

He almost stumbled out of the car, his legs shaky from the lack of sleep and nourishment for the past week, but he steadied his balance and felt the marble under his heels before he straightened his back and poised his head in the seamless position, his eyes narrowing coolly as he entered the party hall.

 

Numerous pairs of eyes from the rambunctious crowd darted towards his direction, a huddled bundle of aged madams around a table chirping in each other’s ears, girls in pretty silk dresses and jewelry jumping up and down tipsily, and heirs to competitor companies tracking his path warily. He was accustomed to it – this was his lifestyle, his daily cycle.

 

On any other occasion, he’d be expected to converse with his father’s partners that may be at the event, engaging in needless formalities and sharing superfluous opinions about the most trivial matters. But today, Jimin had priorities. He was here for solely Jungkook, and to see if the arrangement was a success. Until now, Jimin couldn’t spot any major issues that could cause a ruckus or serve as blotches in Jungkook’s reputation as the Paragon’s next emperor. He rummaged for his phone and texted a short message to Taehyung that he was here, and quietly shifted through hordes of people.

 

It was at that moment, when a soft, feathery note touched upon him, gracing him awake from his drowsiness. The sound echoed and faded into the cacophonous chatter and meaningless bickering of people, leaving Jimin drawn, attracted to the source. His phone buzzed – it was most likely Taehyung – but he prodded through arms and legs, proceeding forward, his steps brisk and less elegant than before.

 

The note resounded again, reverberating through the vicinity, inaudible and nearly subliminal amongst the utter nonsensical prattle that was driving Jimin insane. The terse notes interlocked into one melody, distant but beautiful, incomparable to any other that Jimin had ever heard. He nibbled on the crack of his lips, chewing the inside of his cheek. He was so _close,_ he was _so close._

He shoved a middle-aged man to the side, who threw Jimin an admonishing glint of his squinty, wrinkled eyes until he realized whom exactly he was glowering at. He cowered away and made space for the younger mogul, powerless and fearful. Jimin would apologize, abiding the norm of this society. But no, he had _priorities_.

 

There was the Jeon family’s prized white grand piano on an elevated floor, a dim, blue spotlight trickling over the smooth, rich wood. The man hunched over the keys sat on a white bench, his dark bangs curtaining his vision, his pale skin sparkling in sapphire under the hue of the light. His fingers were slender and as white as the keys of the piano, as they danced over them to create the most beautiful melody. Jimin didn’t know the name of the piece, so it obviously wasn’t the typical classics, jazz, or even slipshod arrangements of pop. It was _this_ pianist’s creation, his very own.

 

It was breathtaking, and euphorically gorgeous.

 

As the music threaded through dramatic crescendos, tentative pianissimos, stuttering staccato notes, and heavy progressions, Jimin was drawn into the pianist’s meticulously crafted universe, embellished with melodies as constellations, and the white grand piano as its galaxy.

 

Time seemed to be fictional in this world, as Jimin froze upon his steps for what seemed like an instant and forever simultaneously. His attention sharpened to absorb every minuscule detail, from the pianist’s curls in his combed hair, to the ripple in the back of his button-down shirt, sweat from his forehead trickling down his skin, some landing on the keys of the piano. Jimin watched, watched, and _watched_ , like he never had before.

 

The music continued, and then, all too soon, the spell was undone.

 

The hums of people and waves of conversation jostled back into Jimin’s consciousness, attacking him viciously. Even so, Jimin couldn’t tear his eyes away from the pianist, who was on the verge of collapsing to the floor after having all his energy poured into the beauty of his performance. Jimin waited – he waited, while not quite knowing what he was waiting for.

 

And then, the man’s eyelids lifted.

 

Obsidian, was the term Jimin would use. The obsidian of an ocean in the midnight, still and its depth unfathomable. The pupils of the man regained their focus, and then hardened, as he faced Jimin. For the first time, Jimin was able to fully examine the man’s face in harmony – starless, midnight locks matted against his forehead, feline-resembling eyes, and button nose, and tout lips that were blazing red.

 

One second, the world consisted of just two of them; their gazes fastened together, brunt obsidian with brown diamond. The axis and equilibrium of Jimin’s ideal world transformed into something else ever so slightly, but enough for it to be his everything. The pianist’s canine tooth poked out from his mouth, grazing against his very own translucent skin. His body was relaxed yet firm, as he just gaped at Jimin.

 

The next second, the pianist was scurrying out of the hall, running out of the door frantically, as if he had only minutes of his life to spare.

 

It took Jimin a while to comprehend the situation – did the man actually just trip over his feet to avoid Jimin? Was he sprinting _from_ Jimin? Well, regardless of the trigger, Jimin couldn’t afford to have this man escape. So moving on to the next logical step, Jimin ran after him. He knocked open the exit quite violently with his foot, his brand new, polished shoes creasing at the impact, as remnants of adrenaline in his system pumped through his vessels.

 

Of course, the lag had served as sufficient for the man to vanish completely, into the pitch-blackness of the Jeon estate’s corridors. Jimin pursed his lips into a narrow line, the sinister murmurs of his father long forgotten and supplanted with a new melody, a spellbound attraction, and a rather mysterious pianist.

 

 _Suga,_ the alias rolled over his tongue, sweet with a spicy tang.

 

“Suga.”

 

If this magic was in truth, a curse, Jimin took no notice to it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**이뤄지지 않는 꿈속에서 피울 수 없는 꽃을 키웠어** **– Fake love**

- **In this dream that won’t ever come true, I grew a flower that couldn’t be blossomed-**

“Jimin-ah, I can’t _believe_ you didn’t even consider, well, I don’t know, maybe _contacting_ us about your whereabouts during your ever-so-short stay at the party – who just texts ‘I’m here’ and ignores incoming calls and messages for the next half-hour, like what _even_ –“

 

An exasperated sigh pierced through the tirade. “I’m pretty certain that I apologized for that an hour ago, Tae.”

 

“Apologies don’t always let you off the hook – tragic, I know. The highlight of the party was me introducing you to the miracle of Suga, and you just _shoozam-ed_ out of sight like fairy dust. Friendship rating 12 out of 10, Jimin.” Taehyung pouted with a cross knit of his eyebrows, his arms folded pointedly over his chest. Jimin heaved yet another elongated sigh – it was 1 in the morning, and he wasn’t in the mood for this. His bed was literally twenty meters away – his _haven_ was twenty meters away – but no, his best friend wasn’t going to grant permission to that delicacy any time soon.

 

Jungkook flashed him a sympathetic downturn of his bunny face. “You’ll always have a second chance to coerce Jiminie-hyung into listening to Suga’s music, Tae.”

 

“Yeah, but that’s not my point –“

 

“Actually,” Jimin, drowsy with fading consciousness, interjected with a droning voice. “I was there. At the grand piano, his performance.” The enlightening tingle of each note was still vibrant and almost palpable in Jimin’s head, the crystal obsidian of the man striking and just as memorable. “It was… definitely something.”

 

“ _Whoa,_ back up.” The model threw himself towards Jimin’s languid body, grabbing the latter’s shoulders and shaking them madly. Jimin had no clue why he still maintained his friendship with him. “You _met_ Suga?”

 

“I’m not repeating myself, Taehyung.”

 

“ _No way,_ and you liked it? Oh my god, this _cannot_ be real.”

 

 _Loved it, truthfully. Mesmerized, captivated, absolutely dumbfounded._ “He was alright.”

 

Taehyung snorted. “Alright? Well, fine, I guess that’s rich, coming from you. Kookie, I miss my cute and chubby-cheeked Jiminie, he was so much more adorable than this brunt here –“

 

“Taehyung-ah, seriously. I want to sleep if you’re done with your silly business here.” Jimin needed his rest – it wasn’t like running on 4 hours of sleep every day was particularly healthy, or one of the top recommendations from doctors of the century.

 

“It’s not silly, Jimin, he’s amazing. I _almost_ obtained his number, you know, like I wrote mine on that sticky note so he could call me and everything, but he just told me through Jin instead, like, I was _so_ disappointed.” Whining, Taehyung rolled over Jimin’s wide sofa, Jungkook on the edge. “It was my first time meeting him in person. I only see his fingers on his channel, so I guess that’s expected, but –“

 

“ _Tae_.”

 

The man huffed, throwing Jimin a haughty glare. “Maybe you can say something more _positive_ about my idol for once, to recompense for my battered heart and our shattered chains of love.”

 

Jimin groaned, tossing a pillow towards the ceiling of his living room. “He _ran_ from me, like he perceived a ghost. Yes, his _piano_ was astounding, but as a person, he was nothing but a coward to me, impolite, haphazard –“

 

“I don’t care about your personal opinions about his character, what’s crucial is that you judge his music to be _astounding._ You should’ve begun with that, Minnie-yah!” Taehyung, his already luminous smile now around 40 times more blinding, squealed. “If _you’re_ praising him, you know he’s talented. You haven’t graced anyone with niceties for eons.”

 

This fight was growing ancient, and Jimin just really, really wanted to black out. “I attended the party, didn’t I?”

 

“Yes, because you apparently had a deal to settle with Yang Jiseok, and not to stand as an emotional pillar for our dear maknae.” Jungkook squirmed in the corner, sensing Jimin’s irritation. Of course, Taehyung wasn’t clueless, he just enjoyed pushing the boundaries – because Jimin always let him. “That aside, now that you know the legend that is Suga, are you finally going to heed my sagacious words and _listen_ to his pieces?”

 

“When I go to sleep, maybe, I don’t know.” _Which can be just around right now, this very nanosecond._ “What’s his channel again?”

 

“Minsuga on YouTube, but I don’t know – his videos are less… enchanting. Modern technology cannot replicate his sheer ability, kind of thing. Like today- or yesterday, whatever – I thought his videos were mind blowing but then I saw his live performance, and I’m positive that my brain imploded, in a good way.” Jimin yawned and shuffled into his bedroom, having had enough interaction with his friends. Taehyung sniffed, “You’ll see what I mean. I pity that you actually _started_ with the actual stuff; your Suga experience is never going to be the same ever again.”

 

Jungkook motioned towards his companion to depart Jimin’s apartment, and minutes later, Jimin heard the door lock click. He sunk into the warmth of his sheets, the coolness of the chilled cotton blankets, with a customized pillow beneath his aching head. He lethargically scooted sideways, reaching for his phone, and single-handedly typed ‘Minsuga’, brushing his finger over the first video that popped up.

 

The pianist played – it was a cover of some American song all over the radio – but true to his best friend’s solid statement, it definitely wasn’t comparable to the real thing. Better than most, but not the best Jimin’s been through – this was the man, yet not the man that Jimin encountered at the Jeon estate, entangled into that flawlessly crafted universe, star-struck.

 

He turned his phone off, pinching the middle of his nose in distress. He would text Taehyung tomorrow, mutter another apology or two about his lack of response at the party, and request to connect him with the mystical musician. He’ll bear through those ghastly horror films that Jungkook’s addicted to, if that eases the pathway to his deal. The momentary, ephemeral expression of bewilderment and temptation that fleeted past the man’s face is inscribed into Jimin’s memory, and it’s the last image that wanders upon his thoughts before he drifts to sleep.

 

It’ll play out seamlessly. He’s _Park Jimin_ – and that name alone held significant meaning.

 

_Suga._

***

“Min Yoongi.”

 

“Wel- oh.” Slumping his back and shoulders, Yoongi grumbled, “You’re here again.”

 

“Of course I am, when you’re deserting me _, me,_ Yoongi, from this national revelation of our generation –“ Seokjin ranted, his lengthy arms flying into the air. “ _Why in the world,_ Yoongi, is a Park _Jimin_ wanting to see you ASAP?”

 

Yoongi squeezed his eyes shut, the action almost automated. “Hyung, I don’t really want to discuss this right now, right here, out of all possible locations –“

 

“Yoon, it’s a _Jimin._ We both got the fact through our bones and marrows that you stray as clear as possible, travel to Antarctica when you confront a _Jimin,_ it doesn’t matter if he’s the one or not, we three all agreed that –“

 

“He _is_ the one.” Yoongi seethed, ripping his uniform apron off and tossing it towards a vacant table. It was a blessing that the café was free during this hour of the afternoon, when nobody wanted coffee. “He _is_ the one, Jin, and I’ve been going absolutely crazy about the fact ever since last night, because I’ve made a fool out of myself by fucking dashing out of the place like my _ass_ was on fire.”

 

Jin’s jaw dropped by an inch or two, snapped, as the man rubbed his tongue against the inner walls of his cheek for five silent seconds. He pushed his mask back on, paced anxiously through the café, his right hand gripping his hip too hard. Yoongi merely zoned out in his own shock and numb anguish, nibbling on the cuticle of his finger.

 

When the older male garnered his thoughts, he said, “We need to get you a plane ticket, a visa or something, and teleport you out of this country, this _very_ instant.”

 

“Yes, hyung, because that’s a very realistic solution.”

 

“Yoongi, this is about _you._ We’ve all been overly conscious and cautious for twelve years – _twelve_ – and you’re going to let our concerted effort go to waste.” Seokjin protested, clasping his large palms around Yoongi’s. “You distanced yourself from literally every single Jimin you came across your entire life, and Hoseok and I confirmed that _nobody_ that sounds just as right approaches you, maintains a 30-meter radius from you. You’re the expert, Yoongi, you know how _this_ functions.”

 

The other guffawed at the reprimanding speech, clapping his hand around his forehead. “It’s too late, Jin-hyung. Around 18 hours tardy. I can’t just- _leave._ This doesn’t just disappear because I vanish from plain sight – once I _meet_ them, it’s too late.”

 

He could still recollect the minute details of the facial features of the more than beautiful man, with his platinum silver locks parted down the middle, strands tucked behind his ear cascading downward along the arch of his neck, his jawline defined yet his cheeks healthy with life. The dark brown of his eyes was just like any other Asian in your district, yet holistically disparate – an exquisite, pure chocolate brown that Yoongi never knew existed. His nose was cute, although the gleaming, lustrous lips sent a chill down his spine. Yoongi almost destroyed the grand piano upon sharing eye contact with the younger – a grand piano that probably cost as much as his apartment rent for one year, or more.

 

Seokjin swallowed the umpteenth sigh of the day and fiddled with the hem of his shirt collar. “Okay,” He composed himself, “Then what are we going to do?”

 

Void of a solution, Yoongi drooped to the plastic of the table and murmured, “Why _does_ he want to see me, anyway?” Fate’s mocking jest at him, probably.

 

“Well, Taehyung-ssi kept it pretty vague,” The actor provided, “Unless he’s actually serious about Park Jimin becoming your avid fan, which frankly, I don’t believe a particle of, given the context and appropriate circumstances.” He paused when his friend didn’t budge from the tabletop. “He likes your piano, apparently.”

 

“My _piano._ ” Yoongi drawled, his voice vibrating against the plastic cover, “As in the one I’ve had since I was a little brat or –“

 

“No, Min _Suga_ ,” Deliberately articulating the syllables, Jin corrected, “He likes you as a pianist. Your style, your rhythm, your music – all that. Which – well – I guess isn’t _impossible_ as your curse doesn’t specify anything about your skills, you know, but I’m still skeptical.”

 

 _His piano._ Of course. It wasn’t – it couldn’t be – anything about his qualities as a person, but his physical, visible qualities that weren’t particularly unique to a single individual. Expected.

 

Seokjin concernedly ruffled Yoongi’s hair, his warmth a temporary solace to the latter’s hurricane. “Yoongi, it’ll work out. We’ll make sure it does, okay? I’ll call Hoseokie; we can have a nice, friendly chat about this, devise a plan, execute it, and pass this trial with flying colors, understood? Just trust me – you trust me, right?” At the inquiry, the minor only replied with a barely existent nod, which sufficed as an answer to Jin. “Don’t beat yourself over this, Yoonie, please. I,” He stole a pitiable glance at his clock, “I have to go now, but don’t ever hesitate to call me or Hoseok if something happens. I’ll persuade the staff that you’re more important than some CM shooting because you _are –_ “

 

“I got it, crystal, stop with the cheese.” His ears reddening at the tips, Yoongi waved his best friend away in awkward shame. “I don’t even get how you spurt all that trash without a crease of the brow.”

 

Laughing, Seokjin teased, “Comes with the occupation and necessary assets, Yoongichi.” He was speedy in concealing his face with his usual pink cap and mask, climbing into the van as his manager slid the door shut. Yoongi observed his departure with a blasé attitude, and stripped himself from the chair as a customer entered soon after.

 

“You and your celebrity friends,” Minho, the barista, chuckled. “It’s surprising how Dispatch isn’t chasing your ass for a scoop, you know. You’re always around _the_ Kim Seokjin, and he’s not even subtle about it nowadays.”

 

Receiving the order, the waiter rolled his eyes, passing back the bills for change. “I only have one celebrity friend, and Dispatch evaporated when they stalked Seokjin-hyung and me around for legit two months and got nothing other than us eating lamb skewers together.”

 

“You never know, Suga,” Minho hummed – the man found a liking to Yoongi’s alias, and while he had no qualms with the name, he wasn’t ever certain as of why that was the case. “One day, the wealthiest, hottest chaebol of South Korea might knock on your door, and invite them to their castle.”

 

“Yeah, right,” Sourly cleansing a booth in the corner, Yoongi grunted, “Fat chance.”

 

The washcloth squelched in his grip.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You should go home, Min.”

 

“I,” He licked the corner of his mouth, “I can clean up the rest.”

 

Hakyeon frowned, “Your shift ended literally an entire hour ago, Min. And now since you’re doing Jihoon’s task, he dashed off half an hour early.” He shoved Yoongi out of the way, passing on the new orders to the kitchen. “We’re not even paid for overtime here – and I’ve been here with you for a year, don’t even try to convince me that you’re doing this for charity.”

 

There was piercing truth to his coworker’s words, and Yoongi squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t feel like heading back home today.”

 

Hakyeon stared at him in utter petrification. “You’re not Min Yoongi. Where’s our perpetually homesick Min?”

 

“Jesus Christ, hyung, fine.” Huffed the other, as he dragged his feet out. “I’ll be going. You can handle the floor on your own, right?”

 

“I’ve been at this for ages, Min Yoongi, I’m a veteran. I’m not like you that skips around from job to job.” Hakyeon said pointedly, “And it’s 9 – we close up soon. It’s a diner anyway, and it’s way past ordinary meal hours. I’ll just lock up everything once it’s time, so go off, be free.”

 

Yoongi rolled his eyes, as he grabbed his belongings from the staff’s lockers and pushed on the doors. “Sure, I’ll leave it to you, then.”

 

“Mm.”

 

The breezy night air blew into his face as he advanced towards the main road, the outdated lampposts of his neighborhood blinking rapidly, with street cats yowling whenever he almost trespassed their territory. It smelled of vehicle exhaust and the city, smoky and bitter – not pleasant, but familiar. He cracked his neck as he sluggishly headed to his own apartment complex – rundown, with paint scraped off the exterior in obnoxious patches, only five floors high compared to the skyscrapers close by. His house was on the rooftop – the epitome of a typical penniless Korean citizen.

 

The apartment was merely five or so meters away, when Yoongi caught sight of an oddity, something that definitely did _not_ belong in this area of his town – a fucking bright orange Lamborghini, sparkling under the sorry spotlight of a lamp that hung from the entrance, probably installed after the Korean War, based on its appearance. The car was parked to the side, but leaving little room for Yoongi to evade the possibility of crawling past it.

 

 _Well, someone’s enjoying a luxurious affair, I suppose,_ He noted, hunching his shoulders and lowering his head as he approached the car. He would’ve appreciated if the owner actually bothered to park the damned thing a few gracious centimeters to the right, and not directly in front of the doorway, but there was nothing much that could be done – besides, he had no hobbies related to pissing off rich people and dealing with their tantrums.

 

“Excuse me.”

 

Just before he placed a tentative step on the stairwell leading to the glass double doors, a light yet penetrating voice resounded from behind, from the Lamborghini. Yoongi thoughtlessly whipped around, his weary vision landing on the mystery person.

 

Bad, _bad_ , decision.

 

The first thing he noticed was the distinctive silver, impossible to miss with the stark contrast of the night and the blaring orange of the Lamborghini that surrounded him. Then it was the cold pair of chocolate orbs, unemotional and steely, tranquil yet obviously dangerous. Then finally, it was the man as a whole – the very one and only – Park Jimin.

 

His throat dried.

 

He couldn’t even budge or flinch as the man-boy _,_ more like – swung open the car’s door and stood on the ground, folding his arms seemingly out of habit. “I was aware that you had more than five part-time jobs, but I wasn’t expecting you’d be back during this inconvenient hour.” Jimin glanced at his golden Rolex – of course – watch. “I’ve been waiting for the past three hours here.”

 

 _For who?_ Rang Yoongi’s inner voice in utter panic and dread, _for your Cinderella?_

The day was going so well, too.

 

Jimin scrutinized him with a blasé expression, the corner of his mouth twitching inquisitively. Yoongi took one quavering step backward, the heel of his foot nearly twisting off the edge of the stairwell he was upon. His hands rested shakily on the doorframe, as he glimpsed through the apartment’s vicinity for any route of escape, but to no avail.

 

_This is not happening._

 

(Oh, but it is.)

 

“I believe we’ve met,” Jimin suggested drily, his brows furrowing at the memory. “A night before.”

 

The pianist struggled to grasp for his voice again. “I… perhaps.”

 

“You were at the party hosted by the Paragon Group’s heir.” It was not a query of any sort, but a definitive declaration – Jimin’s phrases were patient and spaced out evenly, and Yoongi felt like a flabbergasted muddle.

 

“I was,” He blandly responded, “But I was… concentrated. I didn’t- I don’t exactly recall any specific details of… of people.” Now that was a half-truth, in Yoongi’s defense, as much as it was a half-lie – he really was concentrated on his piano; he was averse to the most minor failures and stumbles in his execution. He _really_ had taken no notice to any of the guests – none, except for Park Jimin.

 

Again, half-truth, half-lie.

 

“Well,” Jimin shifted forward, but all there was behind the trapped man was a miserable wall – a dead end. “That’s peculiar – because I’m _confident_ that we saw each other in the eye, until you very much fled the scene.”

 

“I needed the restroom.” The younger man scoffed at the nervously delivered reason – and the Min flushed beetroot red. “Frankly,” He gritted his teeth, “I don’t know you,” _False_ , “And I don’t see how my queer behavior yesterday is any inkling of your business.”

 

The latter pursed his thick lips at the commentary. “It’s not.” He concluded, “But I… I’m interested.” The perfect impassionate complexion Jimin seemed to be aiming for wore off, just barely, at the reveal. “In your piano.”

 

With a metaphorical light bulb above his head, remembrance flooded the man. How Seokjin mentioned about Park Jimin being drawn to his piano, his skill set – and how he threaded his fingers through the massive connections and networks he possessed to locate Yoongi, to the extent where he called his best friend.

 

His anxiety and apprehension dissipated at the newfound realization. _Of course,_ this much had to be within his scope of capable prediction. He didn’t know what he had been expectant of – what _did_ he want? There was only one form of emotion that could take shape in Jimin’s glaciated heart towards him, and that was hatred.

 

Or, that’s what the curse proclaimed.

 

 _His_ curse.

 

“So,” His stature more relaxed and less tense around the muscles, Yoongi drawled, “You’ve tracked me down, is what occurred.”

 

Jimin shrugged at the accusation. “Your friend wasn’t very compliant in sharing information, and I simply proceeded with adequate measures.” _God bless Jin,_ the raven thought – his best friends were more sensitive about his rather fantastical and fictitious predicament than himself, and he honestly didn’t know what he had done to deserve such wonderful people in his life – although he’d never admit it to their face. Graceful mercy from the heavens for his wretched curse, maybe.

 

“I’ve been informed. Unfortunately, I don’t upload new videos on my channel or anything, if that’s what you’re so adamant on pressuring me to do. I haven’t been active for years –“

 

“You’re getting the wrong idea. I’m not Taehyung.” Jimin said rather bitterly, “I do not regard you with such reverence, _Suga-_ ssi.”

 

 _I’m sure you don’t,_ “Then what the hell are you here for?”

 

“It’s…” Jimin’s canine tooth showed as it dug down into his peach skin. He appeared to be contemplating quite deeply on whatever his intention was, as he let his arms fall to his sides. For the first time upon their two eventful meetings, Yoongi saw that the other was shorter than him, albeit by a marginal difference. The male always comported himself with immense pride and overflowing nonchalance, that his petite height and boyish face was rarely placed beneath the limelight.

 

“I want you to play for me.”

 

_Huh._

“Play,” His scratchy voice and rumbling pitch lingered on the word, extending the sound. “For you.” Jimin nodded tersely. “As in, me.” Another nod.

 

His stare bored into Jimin’s, desperate to catch a faltering fraud in this entire act – because _what kind of offer was this?_ As if the Fates haven’t taunted him enough, of course. But the doe eyes were firm and unwavering, Jimin’s shoulders spread out with assurance. Yoongi ran a few reluctant fingers through his sweaty locks. “You could _really_ fucking elaborate on what you mean.”

 

Jimin winced – at his very eloquent word choice, most likely – “I meant exactly what my suggestion intended. Your piano is special, and I want you to play for me.”

 

 _Okay,_ Yoongi exhaled unsteadily, his vision swimming. _I’m not okay._ He was wasted for the day. He was utterly worn out. He didn’t have the sanity to deal with a rich kid’s tantrum – or request.

 

It didn’t matter that the rich kid was Park Jimin, and that he was really, _really_ pretty.

 

It didn’t.

 

“I don’t… _play_ exclusively for other people. I made an exception for yesterday’s performance, because V-ssi seemed to adore my… my music, and all, but it’s not something that happens every day. I’m thankful for your offer but –“

 

“I’ll pay you 500,000 won with one visit. That’s 1,000,000 with two.” Jimin butted in, his expression unchanging and bold.

 

Yoongi’s head ached. “Park Jimin-ssi, this isn’t about the money, it’s a personal principle that I adhere to –“

 

Something – something shifted in Jimin’s face, his brows twitching and his jaw tightening. “How much do you earn from your part-time jobs daily anyway, Suga-ssi? Ten thousand total? Twelve thousand?” His voice had risen, and his tone was not the ordinary cool, cutting, icy trill but something that edged on near-mockery, impatience, and…

 

Not like any of that mattered.

 

“I think my offer was fairly profitable for both parties, considering your…” Jimin paused, his lips quirking as he re-examined the condition of Yoongi’s apartment. “… Situation.”

 

There were always myriads of implications behind the term, “situation”. The fact that he lived off precisely 8 part-time jobs, the fact that he was one of those college drop-outs, the fact that he was apparently delusional because he wanted to be a musician, and the fact that he always seemed to appear like he had no social life, along with numerous others. Min Yoongi had been accustomed to that. The pestering, gossipy old ladies that always huddled in a loose group whenever Yoongi passed by their meeting spot, the wary glances from a high school girl that worked at a convenience store he frequently bought from, his parents from years ago before he ran away from home – he had a whole book he could publish with the names alone. Park Jimin wouldn’t even add another line, another page to it – but that wasn’t the point.

 

Park Jimin was _different_ , and Yoongi had no idea why, although he did, all at the same time.

 

“ _Park Jimin-ssi_.” This wasn’t about the curse. In fact, Yoongi couldn’t give a second shit about this curse – “Please get the fuck out of here.”

 

Jimin’s lashes fluttered in surprise, his mouth parting a little from Yoongi’s outburst. “Suga –“

 

“You overstepped your boundaries.” Yoongi enunciated, his index finger pointing straight at the door. “Get out, brat. I’m not playing for you.”

 

The other man finally shook himself out of his momentary freeze, his lips pursed into a thin line and his eyes settling on the pianist. He scrutinized Yoongi between the tension, and finally stepped back, relenting. “Fine, I’ll take my leave. Your message was clear.” He pulled the handle on the side of the car, and Yoongi glared at him throughout the entire process.

 

But just before Jimin got into the driver’s seat, he said, “By the way,” Yoongi looked up, “I don’t think I’ve ever introduced myself to you – and you called me by my name.”

 

 _Shit._ “I –“ He coughed, his head going white. “Jin!” Blurting out his friend’s name somewhat desperately, he yelped, “Jin, he… he told me about you. That’s it.”

 

“Hm.” Jimin raised an inquisitive brow, “Sure. Farewell, Min Yoongi-ssi.”

 

_Suga-ssi._

Yoongi stood in the lobby for a long time, minutes after the Lamborghini stormed off from his cheap apartment. He rubbed the palm of his hands on his eyes, groaning. His heart was beating rapidly, from the flaring fury towards Jimin’s statement, from the absurdity of his ridiculously cliché, fantastical curse, and from the phenomenal, undeniable beauty of Park Jimin.

 

_Suga-ssi._

“I hate you so much,” He whispered to nobody in particular.

 

_Min Yoongi-ssi._

 

&&&

 

_Jesus._

His sharp nails tugged at his tie that was wrinkled from the events of the night. He kicked the glass double doors to his wardrobe, tossing his sweaty jacket to the hangers, dropping his socks into some random basket that caught his attention, unbuttoning his shirt with frustration and unprecedented irritation.

 

( _“Park Jimin-ssi, please get the fuck out of here.”)_

His insides bubbled hotly at the remembrance of the stubborn demand. It was true that he _indeed_ overstepped his permitted boundaries – he sensed that when he saw the ripple of hurt and rage in the man’s face; he regretted his brashness immediately. Even so, how did that excuse anyone for just adamantly kicking someone out of their –

 

“’Park Jimin-ssi’,” he imitated the brief dialect that appeared when addressing his name, and rolled his eyes. He hurled his Rolex watch on the floor, the metal skidding across the marble at the impact.

 

A cluck of the tongue resounded from his back. “Jimin-ah, you can’t just launch a Rolex on top-quality marble.”

 

“You can if you have 6 other Rolex watches,” Jimin replied weakly, his childish fuss dissipating as he saw Namjoon’s sympathetic grin. “Why are you here, hyung?”

 

“Jungkook wanted to ask you something, and we just had dinner together. He’s at the balcony right now.” Namjoon crouched beneath a drawer where the watch slid under. His hand fumbled as he grabbed for the Rolex. “You know, this model is pretty pricey. Isn’t it one of your favorites? You don’t wear it unless you have an important business.”

 

“That’s not true.” He could snort at how pathetically fragile his retort was, and so could Namjoon, but he didn’t. Instead, he blew remnants of dust from the watch and placed it into Jimin’s accessory cabinet, humming agreeably. “Why is Jungkook in the balcony, anyway? I thought he needed me.”

 

Namjoon chuckled at that. “Inspiration struck, or something like that. You know how he is sometimes.” He added, “Actually, Taehyungie posted a new selfie from his workplace just ten minutes ago, and he’s been antsy ever since. He was like, ‘do you think Jiminie-hyung stocked up the papers’ or ‘is my pencil too sharp right now’ throughout the ride.”

 

Jimin’s shoulders relaxed at the explanation a little. “He’s so whipped for Tae, it’s unreal.” As an artistic prodigy, Jungkook always held an affinity with drawing, painting, sculpting, photography – and Taehyung. When the maknae had asked Jimin to keep a regular stack of paper at his house, the latter had been pretty confounded – but the puzzle pieces matched when one evening, after Tae had bathed in the sunset with his torso half-naked at Jimin’s, Jungkook had dashed for the stack after Taehyung left and began sketching like a madman.

 

They walked out to the balcony after Jimin had finished changing into more comfortable clothing – his usual white T-shirt and gray pants – where Jungkook had a pencil gripped in his right hand, shading one section of the sketch. Namjoon plopped down on a large wooden bench, making sure his slacks didn’t crease, while Jimin sat next to Jungkook on one of his stools.

 

“So,” The oldest tapped his finger on the bench, “What’s wrong?”

 

Jungkook was too absorbed in his drawing to join the conversation, and Jimin averted his gaze. “It’s nothing.”

 

“People don’t just catapult a Rolex across their wardrobe, Jimin.”

 

“Well, I do.”

 

Namjoon ceased for a while, and then inquired, “Is this about the pianist from yesterday night?”

 

Jimin grumbled, “I don’t get how you see through these things.”

 

“IQ 148, youngest professor of SNU of all time.” Namjoon chimed with a triumphant smile.

 

“Oh, I tend to forget with your idiocy when it comes to your dates,” Jimin said sarcastically, as Namjoon shot him a playful glower. The younger related him the details of what exactly happened, from his deal to Yoongi’s fit of fierce ire. The professor listened with a sagacious nod of the head occasionally, taking in the information with solemnly. When Jimin was done, he scratched his head a few times, his newly dyed purple hair tousling.

 

He started off with a sigh. “Jimin, what made you think deriding someone’s financial status would get you the deal?”

 

“I didn’t – it just… I don’t know.” He really didn’t. He was the furthest person from ‘losing his cool’ – in this part of the world, patience and subtleness was key. Jimin had been trained since childhood to live that way, and he had no issues so far in life, until he faced Min Yoongi. There was an abyss inside that obsidian that swallowed Jimin’s sanity, plucking at his strings. The foreign sensation made Jimin sick – he despised it. “I don’t know what I was going for.”

 

“For the K-drama chaebol cliché, I’m certain.” Namjoon scoffed, “Bratty, pushing a bundle of cash into someone and expecting it would resolve their petty problems.”

 

“You _know_ that that wasn’t my intention.”

 

“I do, and that’s why I don’t understand.” His expression softening, Namjoon rose from the bench. “You’ve never latched on to something – or someone – after the accident. Why does it have to be him?”

 

Jimin had questioned himself as well. _Why?_ Why was he so attracted to that melody – it lasted a mere trivial four minutes, and supposedly served as background noise for the “formality” of the party, for the Jeon tradition. Frankly, Jimin had experienced more refined, more polished pieces of music, practiced and thoroughly learned by heart. Yoongi’s couldn’t compare much in skill, but possessed an element much more captivating, addicting, absolutely poisonous. There was no comparison – nothing that Jimin ever heard was worthy of competition.

 

But _just_ the piano. Just the music.

 

Not the man.

 

Namjoon huffed at his silence. “Regardless, you should still apologize in person when you receive the opportunity. The fault’s on you for this one.”

 

“… I know that, but –“

 

“Done.”

 

A soft whisper intercepted, and Jimin jumped as he snapped his head at Jungkook, who was scanning his own sketch. The former leaned in to get a better view of the picture – it was none other than Kim Taehyung, his curled blond hair glowing on the paper, his aura resembling a fairy rather than a mortal, his hands linked on his lap as he sat on a patch of grass with his eyes shut. What Jimin liked about Jungkook’s art was that each and every piece shined with fondness and love – especially those with Taehyung.

 

“It’s good.” Namjoon whistled, “Better than the real one, I dare say.”

 

Jungkook frowned in disagreement, “Tae’s always better in real life.”

 

“You give him too much credit.” Brushing a thumb over his best friend’s sketched face, Jimin secretly admired the drawing. “But I like this one.”

 

“You can have it – as an exchange for my favor.” Jungkook flashed an ominous grin, his orbs glowing with the Seoul’s night scenery. “Since you seem to like it and all.”

 

“Favor,” Jimin reiterated, and found himself relinquishing his right to refuse before Jungkook even explained. The fact that he had a weak spot for the boy was his own clumsy secret to keep. “Is this safe, Jungkook?”

 

Namjoon brought his palm to his forehead, withholding a moan. “I swear, if this is another impromptu party your family is trying to pull –“

 

“So, my parents were pretty impressed with last night’s party,” Namjoon wailed in the corner, “and they want me to host another one in two weeks for… you know, entertainment.”

 

“You Jeons and your _entertainment_ ,” The professor complained, “It’s always been parties this, parties that, and then _I’m_ the one that’s organizing seventy percent of the thing every single time. Your parents seem to forget that I work a full-time job unlike when I used to be in high school.”

 

Jungkook huffed good-naturedly, leaning back on the wall. “They’re just helping you find a partner, Joonie-hyung. You haven’t got laid in what- two years?”

 

“ _One year and 7 months._ ”

 

Scrunching his nose, Jimin interjected, “You’re counting? Gross.”

 

“Anyway, back to my favor,” Swatting his hand, the maknae beamed, “so, you heard at the party – Suga-ssi’s piano. My mother took a liking to it and told me to invite him for this one too, but since you seem like you want to know him hyung, can you ask him if he can attend one more time?”

 

Jimin froze, and Namjoon choked on his saliva and doubled over.

 

Jungkook hadn’t been able to heed their conversation from earlier and therefore didn’t know what occurred during his encounter with Suga – which had gone absolutely downhill. But on the contrary, Jungkook’s favor could be an opportunity – an opportunity for Jimin to redeem himself.

 

“Alright.” Jimin acquiesced, tucking the drawing of Taehyung under his arm. “I’ll contact him – give me his number.”

 

Namjoon furrowed his brows, “Jimin –“

 

“Sent it just now to your messenger.”

 

“Mm.” Adding the number to his contacts, Jimin licked his lips in anticipation as he read the new name on the screen over and over, his phone’s light blinding in the obscure darkness.

 

**_[New Number: Min Yoongi]_ **

****

_(“Brat.”)_

_How dare you._

***

 

 

“So, let me get this straight.”

 

“There is literally nothing to straighten, Hoseok-ah, except Yoongi’s pitiful –“

 

“ _Let me get this straight,_ ” Jung Hoseok flung his arms into the air, swatting away all potential sources of interruption; “You met your love of 600 years two days ago- what was his name, Ryu Jimin?”

 

“That’s the one from 600 years ago,” Yoongi sighed, giving in to the comfort of his sofa. “He’s a Park Jimin now.”

 

“ _Ohmagawd_.”

 

“Hoseok, don’t squeal like it’s something to celebrate about, this is a grave matter and we called this emergency meeting for a very valid reason –“

 

“But I mean,” The other pouted, a chicken drumstick in his hand, “I always wanted to see what they’d look like, in our era. And who knows, maybe this time the curse is gonna be undone, resolved for once and for all –“

 

Seokjin cut him off, “Hoseok, recite the curse.”

 

The latter shifted reluctantly at the command. “’ _Lee Yoongi shall love Ryu Jimin for eternity, for a love that shan’t return. A blossoming flower is destined to wilt.’”_ He said systematically, like a mantra. “But you never know that, right? You never know when things could change.”

 

“It was unrequited for 600 years, Seok-ah,” Jin reprimanded gently, “I think that’s a sign. And we’ve discussed plenty over this matter for the past few years; we all know that. By any slim chance, even if they do end up nicely, there’s always the second part of the curse that prevents it.” Hoseok clamped his lips at the accuracy of his friend’s comment. “Yoongi-yah, are you alright?”

 

“Yeah,” Yoongi breathed shakily, weaving his fingers through his own hair. “No.” He felt Hoseok’s hand rub his knee. “I tried to avoid him for 27 years – _27._ I thought I’d succeed. I actually thought my strategy worked, that just for one lifetime, I’d bring peace to this messed up curse –“ But of course not.

 

The room fell silent, and the trio didn’t utter a single phrase for the next three minutes. Finally, when Jin broke the ice, it was very light and soothing, as the male didn’t want to cause more pressure to the pianist’s mind. “So, what are you going to do? Continue to avoid him?”

 

“I… I don’t know.” Yoongi managed, wrapping his hands over the expanse of his face. The fleeting image of Jimin from last night passed, and his heart rate increased against his own will, blood rising to his head and the tips of his ears. “I could do that. Shit, I don’t know what else I _can_ do at this point.”

 

“That’s alright. We can continue this later, okay? Hopefully when you’re more settled about this… predicament. Do you need some time alone?” Seokjin always seemed to know what he needed. In fact, Kim Seokjin seemed to know what _everyone_ needed. Yoongi nodded quietly, and with that motion alone, the actor tugged Hoseok’s hoodie cap and jutted his chin toward the door. Hoseok glanced once at Yoongi, and then groaned.

 

“Call me when you feel better hyung, you know I’ll be here before you know it.”

 

And then they were gone.

 

Yoongi fell back on his couch. He positively wanted to abandon his physical body in a ditch and spirit away. He was thankful for his friends that somehow believed in his ridiculously inhuman, fictional curse – and that they were always prepared to support him through it. They ensured that nobody by the name of Jimin approached him or befriended him, and came up with all the excuses for Yoongi to not meet them if he had to. He couldn’t ask for better best friends. They even attempted to set him up on some blind dates, averting the sluggish man from his static relationship status, but that never turned out great.

 

’ _Lee Yoongi shall love Ryu Jimin for eternity, for a love that shan’t return. A blossoming flower is destined to wilt.’_

_600 years._ The curse couldn’t be torn, ripped apart, resolved for 600 years, ever since the curse befell upon its original victims. Yoongi had been destined to fall in love with Jimin for centuries – fall in love with a man that would not and more importantly, could not love him back.

 

Even now, his body temperature seemed to elevate at the thought of Jimin, the cute boy with a pretty face but a bratty attitude – and Yoongi was genuinely uncertain whether this emotion was real, or just a byproduct of the curse – an inevitable outcome.

 

Either way, Park Jimin would never return his feelings. And although Yoongi always knew that, since the beginning of his life, it was somehow a more enormous, excruciating pill to swallow.

 

 _I’ll avoid him._ He was determined. The curse was progressing, but as long as the interaction level was kept minimal, it couldn’t be unbearable. He dealt with the fact for more than half his life – he could deal with it for the remainder.

 

His resolve faltered when his ringtone pierced through the tension of his tight living room. His phone lay on the roundtable in the middle of the room, between his couch and the television set. The default Samsung ringtone was unchanging, identical and irksome as always, but something about it wasn’t quite right. The instinct in him told him to not pick up – to repel – especially as he saw that the caller ID was unknown – but he went against that. Half of him had a hunch as to who it was, and the other half prayed that he was off the bull’s eye.

 

“Hello –“

 

“ _Suga-ssi.”_

Bull’s eye.

 

“Park Jimin-ssi.”

 

 _“We,_ ” The chaebol’s heir inhaled, _“we need to talk.”_

“We are.” Yoongi paused, “How did you figure out my number?”

 

_“I don’t think that’s a surprise, considering my connections.”_

_His voice_. Conversing over the phone had unique effects, very distinct from face-to-face interaction. Jimin’s voice was unheard of – feathery but grounded, thin but imposing, musical yet merely speaking. It was breathtaking, inducing his insides to coil. _It’s the curse._ “What do you want? I think we both got that I won’t accept your “gracious” offer –“

 

 _“It’s not that.”_ Jimin snapped, _“Jungkook- you remember the heir to the Paragon Group, don’t you? He’s grown fond of your playing, and wants you at a Jeon-family hosted party in some time. I’m requesting for you in his stead.”_

Yoongi frowned, “And why couldn’t he just call me himself?”

 

 _“He’s,”_ A tentative moment rushed by, _“Preoccupied with the organization of it. I’m assisting him through the procedures – and by no means is this me offering to you personally again. This is for solely the Jeons.”_

Now, Min Yoongi was a quick, clever man. He could infer that there was more to that held pause before Jimin went on. He could refuse. As a matter of fact, it’d be obvious that he’d refuse. The curse would bloom to spring when exposed more frequently to its subject, and that was the last thing that Yoongi desired. Jimin had an ulterior motive, he was a bratty chaebol, and Yoongi might as well abhor his nature.

 

So, he had no idea why his words seemed to contradict it all.

 

“… Sure. Text me the details.”

 

_The curse was unstoppable once loose; he knew that better than anyone_


End file.
